


The Voice that Speaks so Any Man Can Feel

by Arcanista



Series: Our Own Sins [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, But his attraction is critical to the work, Cullen does not physically appear in this work, Cullen's the one with the one-sided attraction, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Femdom, Inquisitor un-named in text, Licking, Masturbation, No physical contact, One-Sided Attraction, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Sad men masturbating, Storytelling, Voice Kink, lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3886897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor is departing Skyhold for a time, and does not wish to leave Samson unfulfilled for the duration. She seeks him out and tells him a story, then leaves him a gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Voice that Speaks so Any Man Can Feel

Leliana alone is bad enough. She extracts information from him that he hardly knows he has; lyrium trafficking routes, outposts, production operations. Her touch is lighter than he would have imagined; she requests rather than truly interrogates, but Samson does co-operate as best as he can. He in no way wants to know how she deals with unwilling subjects. She sits him over a map, points out locations, and asks her questions. She moves on, and then comes back to places she has asked about before. The answers he gives her are always the same.

He suspects it would go worse on him if they weren't. It's exhausting all the same. As if he isn't already exhausted enough. At least the dwarf only needs him to sit there while she does her work.

At least when the Inquisitor comes to ask the dwarf about her work, she isn't interested in talking to him. Leliana usually starts without her, but more often than not, she arrives to _inquisit_  him. He can never guess when she will show up, which is certainly intentional. He gets a moment's respite as the two women move to one side to talk, below his hearing. And then the Inquisitor takes the lead.

She speaks like fever, fast and rapidly changing tacks. First it's the names of contacts at some obscure drop point, then she wants to know the earliest signs of giving someone red lyrium. He barely finishes, anad then she stabs her finger at three different points on the map, wants to know exact manpower at all three locations at once.

Right, fine, he could deal with that, but then Leliana gets back into it, and he finds himself answering questions from both sides. Now he starts having trouble keeping up. He stumbles, and the Inquisitor pounces, needling through his precise phrasing. He can't tell what she's trying to extract from her line of questioning, but she deftly untangles things he knows from things he assumes, and somehow works out priorities. She glances to Leliana as she makes her plans, as if looking for confirmation, but never once does the Nightingale contradict her.

For show? Or does she just know what she's doing? She's skilled when she talks, but it's hard to say how good a head for tactics she has.

Either way, it leaves him tense. He sits through these sessions, through the arcanist's experiments, and spends the whole time with the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

He almost forgets the encounter he had with the Inquisitor, but she always manages to somehow pass within a hair of him when business takes her near to him. He always notices her thick perfume, the aggressive red of her lips, her nails. He doesn't know if she does that for him in particular. He can't imagine why she would, but the shade is close enough that he can't escape the thought. He doesn't have it in him to test his supposed freedom of movement and see if she does it elsewhere. Certainly he's always escorted to Dagna or Leliana, though never by visibly armed guards. He can tell when people are concealing knives, though, and every one of them is. Leliana's people, not Cullen's, then.

Cullen, it seems, wants nothing to do with him. And that's just fine by Samson. There's nothing that needs to be said between them, not at this point. Self-righteous little shit. Not the boy he knew back in Kirkwall, but he can say that about anyone he knew in those days.

Whatever he's doing seems to satisfy people. Or at least, nobody is demanding more of him than he is giving. That works for him. Means he doesn't have to _do_  anything.

One evening he's flipping through the abandoned copy of _Hard in Hightown_  for maybe the fourth time. Might be he could get something else to read, but it doesn't feel right yet. Too many eyes on him. Too much judgement from people who have no right. Maybe one day he'll feel ready to deal with that. Not today. Probably not tomorrow, either. Means he's stuck practically memorizing this book.

Samson hears footsteps coming down the hall, sharp heels on the stone. He snaps the book shut, sits upright on his bed. Something catches in his throat. He hasn't seen the Inquisitor alone since that one time before Dagna took full charge. Between the absurdity of her manner and the struggle of Dagna even trying to shake out a minimum possible dosage of lyrium to keep him functioning, he's caught himself wondering if he dreamed the encounter. But he's had a firm grip on things lately.

Then the door swings open and perfume assaults his nose. It was real. It's all been real. He steels himself as she sashays into the room. He's never seen anybody _sashay_  before her, but she shuts the door behind her by swinging her hips into it. She's wearing a dress today, long and plain and black, leaving her shoulders exposed. All at the same time, his breath catches in his throat, and his eyes narrow just a bit, wary.

"Inquisitor," he says. It doesn't seem possible to take control dealing with her, but neither is he going to sit here waiting for the slaughter. Not with her. "I wasn't expecting you."

"No, you weren't," says the Inquisitor, fingers coming to rest on the wall. She smiles. He can't tell if it's real or not. She wants him to see it anyway, that's clear enough. "But you hoped."

Did he? Samson's not so sure. But he's not sure that she's wrong, either. He grunts. "Might be," he says. "Might be you want me to hope. But I'm done getting sold that line."

The Inquisitor shifts, leaaning fully against the wall. The skirt swishes around her ankles. "Whatever happens, Samson," she says. She raises one hand to rub at her cheek. "Whatever happens, I will never sell you hope. But neither will I give you despair. I am not the Chantry. I have no need to leash you with lyrium. You can always let go. Just say the word, and I'm gone."

He considers it. There's no question that she'll bring him trouble. So far she's done nothing but bring him trouble. But then he'll never know what it is she wants. How curious is he? Not very, if he thinks about it very much. But how much does he have in his life, really? Samson watches the Inquisitor, watches her examine her scarlet nails.

Shit. He's got nothing better to do. "Stay," he says. "For now." She's a monster for certain, but he's _used_  to monsters.

"For now," says the Inquisitor, inclining her head in his direction. She pushes off the wall then, and presses her hands to the top of the desk opposite his bed. She levers herself up onto it, and pivots to face him once her legs are folded. Her skirt hangs over the edge, swaying as she settles herself. In the end, she's looking down at him. Not by a lot, but the point is made. "Dagna says it's taking a surprising amount of lyrium to keep you going. Is that because it's subsituting for the red, or has it always been like that?"

Samson shrugs. He does look up at her to meet her eyes; the alternative is looking at her chest. It's a fine chest, and he wouldn't _mind_  a better look, but he's not going to play that game with her. At least, he won't make the first move. "Think it's always been like that," he says. "That's not why you're here." She'd just get all this from Dagna if that was so.

The Inquisitor raised a hand, pressed a strand of hair behind one ear. "It's not," she says, lowering her hand. "But it's a point of interest. It's no difference to me how much lyrium it takes for you; _I'm_  not paying for it. Not directly, anyway. It makes me wonder how much protection Corypheus was really offering to you. The secret could have been inside you all along." She chuckles, and it sounds almost genuine.

Oh, it's like that, is it? It would just make sense if the only reason Corypheus had sought him out was for that resistance. Not for any skill or ability of his own. Fitting. "Some secret," Samson says. "Why are you here, then?"

"Such a rush," says the Inquisitor. "I gave you a directive, the last time I left this room. Have you adhered to it, Samson?" She drags his name out slowly, working it all through her mouth. Her hands come to rest on the edge of the desk, fingers tightly curling around to press on the underside.

"Yes," he says. He isn't sure why, to be honest. By and large, he really hasn't had the urge to touch himself, of course, but the time or two he did consider it, he stopped himself. Because of her? He's not sure. Certainly when she ordered it, he'd been willing to go along with anything and everything she'd said. That urge faded as time passed, but now? He feels the edges of it rising again.

She leans forward just so, the motion emphasizing her chest. "Good," says the Inquisitor. The praise feels good in a way that Samson's not certain he's comfortable with. "Very good. I'm leaving for a time tomorrow. Dragon-hunting, as it happens; a test before we face down the one that will aid us against your former master. We're liable to be gone for some time. I thought it would be _cruel_  to leave you unfilfilled for the entire duration."

"So, what, the mighty Inquisitor's come here to my bedroom to fuck my brains out before she goes?" says Samson, absolutely deadpan. He's pretty sure it's the question she wants him to ask, but he's just as certain that it's the way to get her to to actually say what she's about. Maybe now he'll actually get a clearer idea of what she _wants_  from him. Probably not, but she likes to fight him on that front. Something to think about, anyway, and he's got nothing but time to think these days.

The Inquisitor laughs, the sound coming out of her throat. She rocks back, shoulders squaring, and she says, "Of course not. Do you want me to?" She unhooks one foot and lets it dangle in the air, skirt rippling over her ankle.

Samson goes with the truth. "You know I do." He could approach her easily enough. Stand up and lift her up and pin her to the wall and fuck her until that smart little tongue of her is tangled and useless. In his dreams, maybe. He's not good enough to fuck her to that state. If she ever gets like that.

"Really," she says. Her tongue dabs over her lips. None of the red comes away. "I wonder. You don't _look_  like you want me. Show me." Her lips twist into a sharp, thin smile.

"Show you," Samson repeats. "Just like that? I thought I wasn't supposed to touch at all?" See how far he can pull with her. If she wants to toy with him, he has enough pride in him yet to not want her to do it _easily_.

She lifts a hand, waving it at him, "Get off the bed," she says, voice curling around him like smoke. Her pitch lowers as she continues with, "Get on your knees. And pull your fucking cock out so I can see. Then sit on your hands. You don't get to touch. It's _mine_ , and nobody touches what's mine unless I say so."

Samson hesitates, just long enough to make sure she notices. But the way she speaks-- he almost moves without thinking. That hesitation takes _effort_. She sees that, too; he can see the look on her face. It's not just a smile; it's something in her eyes, something hungry. She wants _him_. He knows it with a certainty that makes his breath catch in his throat as he eases off the bed and onto his knees. Her gaze drops from his face as he makes himself comfortable as he can, and sets his hands on his trousers. He swallows, then pulls out his soft cock.

The Inquisitor glances over it, then makes a low laugh that sends a chill down his spine. "That's it?" she says, tongue sliding over her teeth. "I should have expected as much. Well, we can't all be gifted. Sit on your hands, I said, Samson. I knew you wouldn't have it up for me yet. Well, we can deal with that, can't we?"

He shifts, getting his hands beneath him as she directs. Samson holds his peace this time, looking back up at her. She just _assumes_  he'll do as she says, he realizes. Well, it's been true so far, hasn't it? She can't possibly do this with all of the Inquisition's prisoners. Can she?

"Let's see," says the Inquisitor. "Cullen says you roomed together back in Kirkwall. I'm curious. There must be a great deal of tensions going on amongst Templars in a Circle, especially one like that. Were the two of you together at all?"

The question takes Samson entirely off-guard. "Cullen? Are you out of your mind? He was just a boy when he came to Kirkwall, and a broken one at that. I don't take advantage. 'S not right."

She cocks her head as if that's some foreign notion to here. "No? Interesting. Cullen is so very _tense_  when the subject of you arises. I thought perhaps... well. Perhaps it's entirely one-sided, then. It would be so like Cullen to never make the move he desperately wishes to." Her leg kicks in the air a little as she teases the words through her mouth. "Well, let me tell you a story about Cullen, then. Cullen and his one-sided affections."

"This how you get your lovers off?" Samson asks, fingers flexing beneath him. His cock is still flaccid, and a little cold as it sits out in the air. Oh, she can fill her voice with more sex than the Rose on a slow night, that's for sure, but this is a tall order indeed.

"Oh, my, no," says the Inquisitor. "But you're not my lover, are you, Samson?" Her tongue works over his name, rubbing up against it. "You're nothing but an enemy I've _conquered_. My _prisoner_. Don't get above yourself, Samson." She lifts a hand, rubbing at her cheek, and adds, "But that's very interesting, isn't it? You were _good_  at leading, weren't you? You commanded _loyalty_. More than that-- all you need for loyalty is a few victories. You _persuaded_  your soldiers to follow you into _fire_ , to do things all of you knew were wrong. Never been given the chance to lead before, and you _inspired_  them all."

"And now I'll never get that chance again," says Samson, glowering as best he can from this angle. Hearing it in such a sultry voice doesn't exactly soften the blows. "Ended like everything else in my life."

The Inquisitor dips her head and smiles, lips tight and smooth. "Perhaps," she says. "Now, I believe I was going to speak of Cullen to you. Ah, yes." She reaches back with one hand, straightening her ponytail. "Cullen, you know, wants me. He's wanted me from the minute he first laid eyes on me. I thought about taking him; he's a natural subordinate, and I like that. But he's still just a puppy. I prefer experience in a man." She chuckles, short and humourlessly. "But he thinks he had a real chance. Now, you know, the best he can do is think of me as he touches himself."

So that's where she's going with this? All told, the _last_  person in the world he wants to think of that way is Cullen. Maybe he'd think differently some other time, but right now? Fucking holier-than-thou bastard acting like he'd never done a damn thing wrong in his life. But Samson feels his cock start stiffening; not enough to see yet. Small favours. He wouldn't want her to see him respond so fast. He grunts at her to continue.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "He's not with anyone, you know, so he sleeps alone. Late at night, he'll pull out his cock. About the size of yours. Maybe a little bigger. And he'll blush, because someone once told him Andraste watches when he does that sort of thing. The idea doesn't turn him on anymore, but he's still embarrassed to think of it. You're not the sort to get embarrassed by that sort of thing, are you, Samson?" She works her voice in low, throaty tones, the sound tingling its way up his arms.

"I'm not," says Samson. Not like that, anyway. He's never thought of Andraste, or the Maker for that matter, as some sort of divine voyeur, shaming him for doing what comes naturally. He's harder now, and he has to stop himself from reaching to touch. He'll play it her way, and his feels his breath grow heavy over his lips.

The Inquisitor notices, both his breath and his cock; she takes the latter in hungrily. Her tongue dabs to her lips, then she continues with, "Cock in his hand, and what does our golden commander think of? He thinks of me standing before him, imagines me slowly undoing my top. He doesn't know much about underthings, so he just pictures my tits _popping_  free, bouncing as I loose them. In his mind, my nipples are tiny and tight and pointed, and he thinks they're just for him. He _squeezes_  his cock in, can you imagine what it feels like? I bet he's _good_  at jacking off; he does it enough."

Samson's cock twitches in the air, full-hard and aching from the thought of hands. Shit, he barely feels the air; just the _sound_  of her is as hot on his bare flesh as anyone he's ever actually been inside.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Samson," says the Inquisitor, voice shifting, swatting at him. "Or do you think all it takes for Cullen is to think of my bare tits? Oh, just a look at the real thing, and he'd come right there, but in his _mind_ , he's got more control than that. He likes to imagine a lot of things. He starts slow, squeezing his cock good and tight, working it with his right hand. He holds onto the blanket with the left, tugs it. He's holding onto it like it's a lifeline. He has to, because then he pictures the rest of me without any clothes on. Pictures his fucking Inquisitor naked in front of him while he's tugging his cock. Say you're still with me, Samson. Or are you too busy thinking of me naked?"

"I'm with you," Samson says hoarsely, his cock twitching as he gets the words out. Of course he's picturing her naked too; less her tits and more her hips, her tight ass that she works so well when she moves. But just as stuck in his head now is the image of Cullen going at himself. Fucking Cullen. She can't just let him have the picture he wants, can she? No, everything she gives comes with poison, and she only makes him want to drink it.

"Good," she says. She rocks back and forth a couple times, inching closer to the edge of the desk. "Now, he's picturing me telling him to do it, telling him to stroke his cock, to rub and squeeze and get his thumb right up against the head when he gets up top. I never would, not him, but he loves to imagine me telling him. He's a _follower_ , Cullen is, in bed and out."

"You said that already," says Samson, his toes curling up against his ass. His cock aches; if only he could just _touch_  it, but he won't let her win like that. Shit, is she just going to talk it out of him? He can't tell like this. Without the _touch_  he can't even guess how close he is.

The Inquisitor smiles a little wider, leans forward. "Did I? Let me tell you this, then. Cullen's a natural fucking follower, but he knows it. Always needs someone in charge, needs someone like _me_  telling him how to touch himself, telling him when to come, telling him what a _good boy_  he is. He seeks out people to lead him. He _wants_  my hand on his cock. You, you know, you tried to be in charge, Samson. And you held it down for a while, you led-- well enough to think you were _good_  at it." She narrows her eyes as Samson's cock twitches in the air. "But you weren't in the end, were you? You fucked it all up. You're just like _Cullen_."

Her words strike him like a whip; his back goes rigid, and all at once he comes, a traitor burst of come splattering out from the tip of his straining cock and puddling on the floor. He lets out a groan caught somewhere between agony and relief. He just glares up at her; she might well have given him some release, but it's the least satisfying orgasm he can remember. And he remembers jacking off into garbage heaps, outdoors, in the rain.

The Inquisitor slides off the desk, feet landing on the ground with two soft thuds. She crosses the gap between them, avoiding the mess on the floor, and presses her hand to the back of his head. She shoves him to the ground, and he doesn't have it in him to try and resist her. His cheek hits the floor, the puddle of come not even an inch from his face. She sets her foot on his cheek, the sharp heel of her boot just by his nose, the end hovering above the floor. She twists her foot, heel pressing to his nose. "Now clean up your fucking mess. For once in your life."

Samson swallows hard, but does as he's told; he reaches out with his tongue, licking it up. She'd poised him well enough to reach it all, but it's going to take some work. He strains out with his tongue, trying to get it. He pulls the thick globs closer, then slurps each one up as soon as he gets it near. The Inquisitor's foot grinds, dirt from the floor pressing hard into his lower cheek.

When he's got it all, the Inquisitor steps back, withdrawing her foot. Samson stays down until she says, "Get up and put your cock away." He does, back screaming at him as he returns to his knees. He does his trousers back up, and wipes the grit from his cheek. He breathes heavily, glaring up at her.

"That should hold you," says the Inquisitor, looking down her nose at him. "I'll only be gone a week or two. No touching while I'm gone. I trust you. But I do have a gift for you."

"Not sure I want it," says Samson, dragging his tongue over his lower lip.

"Oh, don't worry," says the Inquisitor. She smiles and leans forward. "I don't want you to even touch this present. You do need to know it's there." She reaches one hand up her skirt, and spends a moment tugging. When she straightens, she's dangling her smallclothes from one finger. She holds it there long enough for Samson to see the dampness at the crotch, then she turns to open one of the desk drawers. She drops the smallclothes into it, and shuts the drawer. "You'll leave those eactly as I left them, won't you, Samson?"

He swallows. "I won't touch them," says Samson. "Or anything else."

"Good," says the Inquisitor. "You can go back to whatever it was you were doing when I go." She smoothes down her skirt, then just walks out of the room, not looking back at Samson for even a second.

Samson sits there for a few long minutes, trying to decide who he hates more: her, or himself.


End file.
